


Star Trekkin' Into Trouble

by Rycolfan (Snarryeyes)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snarryeyes/pseuds/Rycolfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's going to be a long day for Captain Stiles...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 Whose-A-Thon on LJ's wl_fanfiction comm, using the prompt 'He's dead, Jim.'
> 
> This is a work of fiction. No offense is intended to those portayed herein.

_Good morning, Captain. This is your wake-up call. It is oh seven hundred hours._

The smooth voice of the computer, combined with the lights brightening to simulate morning, pulled Ryan from his warm and comfortable cocoon of sleep. He stretched, screwing his eyes up against the light, and reluctantly sat up, swinging his legs out of bed with a wide yawn. Despite years of duty and early shifts, he had never got used to getting up at the crack of dawn. He was not a morning person, no matter how well he slept the night before. Of course, some nights he got more sleep than others—last night he was awake for an entirely enjoyable reason. The memory brought a smile to his face as he stood up and headed for the sonic shower.

Ryan had only been out of the shower for five minutes when the door beeped cheerfully. Busy dressing, he called out. “Come!”

He heard the smooth slide of the doors opening as he fastened his black cargo pants, not needing to look to know exactly who it would be. He didn’t have to wait long for confirmation.

“Is that what you said to Colin last night?”

“Good morning to you, too, Greg,” Ryan replied mildly. He turned to find his openly smirking First Officer standing just inside the doors, which had just closed with a swish. 

“You _do_ know you’re both about as subtle as a red alert, right?”

Ryan purposefully ignored him, pulling open a nearby drawer to reveal an assortment of command colour tunics—the majority were gold, but there were a couple of green ones thrown in to add a little variety. He plucked a gold one from the pile and slid the damp towel from around his neck to put it on. When he turned back, he found Greg prodding one of his plants; it hissed at him and closed its leaves in annoyance. 

“Any particular reason for this early morning visit, Greg? Besides the commentary on my personal life, of course.”

Greg shrugged and turned his attention to a small swirling sculpture on one of the shelves, picking it up to take a closer look. “I thought we could grab some breakfast together.”

“Should I ask who you’ve left in command?” Ryan asked, eyebrows raised. He sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on his regulation black leather boots.

“Davis. Don’t worry, he promised not to run any stop signs.” 

Ryan snorted and got to his feet, straightening his tunic to smooth any creases, while Greg held up the sculpture with a slightly quizzical expression. “Where did you get this, anyway?”

Walking over, Ryan took it out of his hands and set it down firmly where it belonged. “It was a gift.”

“From Colin?”

“No,” said Ryan, pushing Greg out through the doors with an exasperated rumble of laughter. “It was from a member of the royal family on Elnath II, if you must know.”

“Oh, right; of course,” Greg said drily. They both nodded to a passing crew member as they headed for the turbolift. “Yeah, I have a crystal vase from the Queen of Aldeberan IV in my quarters,” he added airily. 

Ryan’s grin broadened. “Of course you do.”

“So, will Col be joining us for breakfast?”

“No, he had an early shift today. With Carey on compassionate leave, the rota’s had to be changed.”

A familiar voice filled the turbolift as the doors slid shut behind them. “Sickbay to Captain Stiles.”

With a certain amount of foreboding, Ryan pressed the button on the comm panel. “Go ahead, Doctor.”

“I just wanted to remind you about your physical this morning—“ 

Ryan grimaced. 

“—since you’ve managed to avoid the last three appointments.”

Greg gave him a commiserating look, but it was bordering on amusement. Sighing heavily, Ryan replied, “I’ll be there, Brad.”

 

“Want me to fake another ship emergency?” Greg asked as they entered the rec room a few minutes later. It was already bustling with crew members, many of whom acknowledged Ryan and Greg’s entrance—the older crew nodded politely, while the younger, more inexperienced members straightened to attention almost automatically. The loud buzz of many conversations dimmed momentarily and then swelled again.

“No, I don’t think he’ll fall for that again,” Ryan said ruefully. He placed his card into the food synthesizer, which had been suddenly vacated when he approached, and waited. “You know, I think Brad takes entirely too much pleasure in testing my body to its limits.” Greg arched an eyebrow, and Ryan rolled his eyes. “In the physical, Greg.” 

With a trill, his breakfast appeared—a poor imitation of scrambled eggs on toast. Ryan grabbed the tray and sat at a nearby table, eyeing it distastefully while Greg got his own. “I never thought I’d miss real eggs this much,” he said mournfully, prodding the offending yellow gloop with his fork.

Greg shrugged and sat down opposite, immediately tucking in. “Chickens don’t cope well in space. Hell,” he sniggered, “they don’t have enough brains to cope well on Earth. And anything that still runs around once its head is cut off is best left behind—we have enough crazy to deal with.”

“Fair point,” Ryan conceded.

“Besides, this is still better than fucking ration packs. I still have nightmares about the concentrated shit we were forced to eat on that away mission on Gamma Epsilon V.”

Ryan swallowed his mouthful and gave Greg an amused, and slightly incredulous, look. “We had to share a forest with ten-foot winged beasts, which had two rows of razor sharp teeth and a bad attitude, and you have nightmares about the _rations_?”

“An army marches on its stomach,” Greg replied sagely.

“Uh-huh,” Ryan smirked, pointing at Greg’s midriff with his fork. “You should watch yours or you’ll have the good doctor on _your_ case, too.”

A loud burst of laughter drew their attention to a group of crewman a few tables away; it appeared that they were in the midst of some kind of arm wrestling challenge, although there was a clear winner.

“Why do they keep challenging S’ssion?” Ryan asked, shaking his head. “They’re never going to beat a Vulcan’s strength.”

Greg shrugged, returning to his food. “But they can try. It’s better than going up against his brains.”

Ryan’s gaze wandered across the rest of the room’s occupants; a plethora of colours, races, and nationalities. While he was used to being surrounded by crew members, he always enjoyed sitting in the rec room and observing them off-duty and relaxed. Here they could be themselves and put rank aside, if only for a short time before duty recalled them. Some made use of the time to read, others played games, such as chess; many just enjoyed the social aspect, chatting and laughing with friends about experiences on their own sections. Ryan’s eyes were drawn to a group of female crew members, who were cooing loudly over something in the corner. A new picture from home, perhaps. He sometimes thought it wrong that Starfleet didn’t allow families on starships, but then space could be a dangerous place.

“Oy! Slattery!”

The shout, in a clearly English accent, was aimed at a rapidly retreating back. Ignoring the call, the crewman made a swift exit and the doors slid shut behind him.

“Problem, Merton?” Ryan asked, as the man who’d yelled passed their table.

Merton spun around, apparently on the verge of a rude rebuttal before realizing who had spoken. He straightened perceptibly. “Slattery owes me twenty five credits from last night’s poker game, sir.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Bridge to Captain Stiles.” 

The smooth female voice echoed over the comm, halting further conversation. Abandoning his breakfast, Ryan got up, waving Merton away, and walked to the nearest comm panel. He jabbed the button sharply. “Stiles here. What is it, Lawrence?”

“Message from Starfleet, captain; priority channel. I have Admiral Anderson for you.”

Frowning, Ryan replied, “Patch it down to the rec room, lieutenant.”

“Aye, sir.”

“This better not be another fucking babysitting mission,” Greg grumbled.

He heaved himself out of his chair and joined Ryan at a nearby viewing screen, where the face of the admiral materialized; he was older and balding, a little harsh sometimes, but a far better admiral than some Ryan had the misfortune to deal with. Behind the admiral was a panoramic view of San Francisco, and Ryan felt a sudden, unexpected yearning to go home. He forced himself back to the matter at hand.

“Yes, admiral. What can I do for you?”

“I’ll get straight to the point, Captain. The Federation Ambassador on Arcturus VI has informed us that the Peace Treaty with Altair VII has been signed. He’s requesting a Federation starship to transport him to his next assignment, a war in the Gamma Hydra system, and you’re the closest. Your orders are to report there at once.”

“Babysitting,” Greg said out of the corner of his mouth, with quiet disgust.

“Yes, sir,” Ryan replied, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“That’ll be all,” Admiral Anderson said briskly. “And Proops?” he added, addressing Greg directly, with a slight twitch of his lips. “I realize it may be difficult for you, but keep the wise-ass comments to a minimum.”

Greg responded with a sarcastic yet dazzling smile. “It’ll be my pleasure, sir.”

“Starfleet out.”

“Well, there goes our relaxing week,” Ryan said grimly, turning the viewer off.

***

“Report,” Ryan barked, striding onto the bridge a few minutes later. Lieutenant Lawrence turned away from the comm station and gave him a bright smile, temporarily removing her silver earpiece and tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. The rest was swept up and clipped into a loose bun.

“No further transmissions, Captain.”

Lieutenant Davis, younger than most of the other bridge crew, but very capable, had jumped out of the captain’s chair and resumed his post at the helm, relieving an ensign. “We’re holding course at full impulse power, Captain. Nothing to report, except an unusual fluctuation in the warp core; Scotty’s requested that you go down to Engineering.”

Ryan ignored the raised eyebrow from Greg at the science station, turning swiftly on his heel and heading back towards the turbolift. “Very well. Esten; plot a course to Arcturus VI and lay it in when you’re ready. Proceed at full impulse. You have the Conn, Proops.”

“Aye, sir!”

***

Ryan heard his chief engineer before he reached main engineering; a shout rang through the adjacent corridor, turning many heads of those who were passing.

“Gently, lieutenant!”

Colin, known affectionately by some as Scotty due to his Scottish heritage (despite being raised in Canada), was generally calm and soft spoken, but not when it came to the Firecrest—he loved the ship every bit as much as Ryan did, and treated her accordingly. When Ryan entered main engineering, he found Colin underneath a console with only his legs visible. Despite his position, he could still be heard grumbling loudly about heavy-handed crewmen. Ryan stood over him, trying not to smile.

“What’s the problem, Col?”

There was a loud clunk, followed by a curse, and Colin slid out, hazel eyes playfully reproachful. Ryan tried to repress the memory of him lying underneath him in a similar position the night before. 

“Give a man some warning, Captain.”

Ryan’s smile broke through as he offered a hand. “My apologies.” He waited until Colin was back on his feet before repeating his earlier question.

“I’m not sure,” Colin said, his expression turning troubled. “The engines don’t feel quite right, and the warp core is fluctuating a little outside of normal parameters.”

Ryan’s brow furrowed as he looked towards the beating heart of his ship. He couldn’t say the steady thrum of the engines felt any different to him, but then he wasn’t as attuned to them as his chief engineer. “Didn’t they get a full overhaul at the space station last week?”

“Yes, they did,” Colin sighed, walking over to check the main panel, which was lit with an array of different lights, many of them blinking merrily. “They’ve been running fine since then—better than fine—but today?” He pulled a face. “Maybe we have a gremlin in there, but I don’t want to risk warp speed until I can find out what’s causing it. At least we don’t have a mission right now so I’ll have some time.”

Ryan winced, which Colin caught immediately.

“We do have a mission? Since when?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” Ryan said heavily. “Some Federation ambassador needs a ride from one planet to another.”

Colin blew out a breath. “And no one else can do it?”

Ryan shook his head. “Unfortunately, since we’re the closest, we get the job. I think they’re expecting us to get there a little faster than on full impulse, though.”

Colin glanced back at the panel, his eyes flying over the different lights, dials, and gauges. After some contemplation, he said, “Well, she seems pretty steady at the moment. I can try pushing her to warp one if you really need me to, but if she shows any signs of instability during warp I’ll have to dial her back down to impulse or we’d be risking the ship.”

“Understood,” Ryan nodded. “I’ll make sure that Starfleet is aware of the situation and that there might be a delay. In the meantime, keep looking for the source of the problem so we can fix it, and keep me posted.”

“Aye, Captain,” Colin said, the hint of a smile behind the words. Then he hurried off, calling to a couple of crewman nearby.

***

They managed a little over twenty minutes at warp speed before the problems started. Ryan was beginning to relax in his familiar, and surprisingly comfortable, captain’s chair on the Bridge, watching the stars fly past, when the alarms started and the ship abruptly slowed. A call from Colin followed, explaining that the warp core had begun to overload and he’d had only seconds to shut it down. The right decision, of course, but it left them limping towards their destination, rather than flying. 

Over the next few hours other systems mysteriously started to malfunction as well, or shut down entirely, and the maintenance crews were hard pushed to keep up. One good thing that came from this was that Ryan was far too busy to go to Sickbay for his physical, although it wasn’t long before the systems there were affected as well.

“We can always do your physical the old fashioned way,” Brad said over the comm, after reporting the problems. His voice was more amused than aggravated.

“Sorry, doctor,” said Ryan, although he didn’t sound remotely apologetic. “No time.”

He’d barely cut the doctor off when yet another call came through, reporting that one of the turbo lifts was stuck between decks three and four.

“Are we in some kind of Bermuda Triangle in space?” Ryan asked exasperatedly, having sent yet another team to sort the problem.

Greg shrugged. “There’ve been no reports of anything strange in this area. I already checked.”

“Any comparison to the Bermuda triangle is illogical, Captain,” S’ssion added, his face as expressionless as always as he swivelled in his chair to face them. “The so-called Bermuda Triangle is a myth, for which there is no scientific basis. That area on Earth is merely frequented by tropical storms. You cannot have any such storms in the vacuum of space.”

“Yes; thank you, S’ssion,” Ryan said. “Remind me to teach you about humour sometime.”

“Humour is also illogical.”

Lieutenant Lawrence made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort of amusement, quickly turning it into a cough.

“Engineering to Captain Stiles.”

Ryan practically jumped on the button to get himself out of the conversation. “Yes, Col. Please tell me you have good news.”

“That depends on your point of view. I _have_ found the root of the problem.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Ryan, feeling a wave of relief before he registered the tone of Colin’s voice. “How bad are we talking, Col?”

There was a pause. “I think you’d better come down and take a look for yourself.”

***

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Ryan stared at the source of his problems, which Colin had just deposited in his hand. There was nothing to see but a ball of fur, although a soft cooing sound was now emanating from somewhere within the dense mass of hairs. Ryan tried to ignore its calming effect and hold on to his irritation.

“How the hell did we get tribbles onboard?”

Colin shrugged. “I’m guessing they’re from the space station. It would have taken a few days for them to get into the machinery and start causing problems.” He picked up another one from a small pile of the creatures on a nearby console, rolling it over in his hands. “I have a feeling that these are just the tip of the iceberg.”

An ensign approached with another handful, looking a little bemused by the whole thing. “What are they, sir?”

“Tribbles, ensign Vranch,” Ryan replied, replacing his tribble on the pile.

Noticing that his engineer’s blank expression remained in place, Colin smiled. “A bit before your time, ensign, but tribbles have caused Starfleet a fair few headaches over the years. They can breed out of control within a very small amount of time, which, as you can imagine, is not a good idea within the confines of a ship.”

“And we don’t know how many we have aboard,” said Ryan, his eyes wandering over the mass of circuits and machinery. “They’ll be in all the pipes and ventilation shafts.”

“Carry on, ensign,” Colin said, dismissing the other man. He jumped to attention and hurried back the way he came. “Sorry to add to your bad day, Ry,” Colin continued more softly, offering a sympathetic smile. “I’ll clear them out as fast as I can.”

Ryan shook his head. “It’s not your fault.” The ghost of an answering smile touched his lips. “At least we know what we’re dealing with now. It’s all uphill from here, right?”

“Bridge to Captain Stiles!”

Colin’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “I’m going to hold off answering that question.”

It only took Ryan three long strides to reach the comm panel. “Stiles here.” 

“We’re picking up a distress signal from Procyon III, Captain.”

“I’ll be right there.”

***

“Report.”

Lieutenant Lawrence immediately swivelled to face him. “I picked up a signal a few minutes ago, Captain. It’s faint but…” she pressed a button and a male voice crackled out of the speaker, his words occasionally lost for a second or two in static.

“This is Com…der Mike McShane of…Mirian Explorer. We wer… way to Voltura Prime whe...crashed on Procyon III… need help…anyone can hear me…”

“That’s all I have, sir.”

Ryan ran a hand across his chin. “What do we know about the Mirian Explorer?”

“Let’s have a look.” Greg punched the records up on his console. “She’s registered as a cargo ship; transports Dilithium primarily. Medium crew complement.”

Pursing his lips, Ryan looked back at Lawrence. “Any other ships in the area, lieutenant?”

“None that I’ve detected, sir.”

“Hmm.” Ryan turned towards the helm, where his navigator sat. “How far is Procyon III from our present course, Esten?”

Ensign Esten had apparently been ready and waiting for this question because he immediately turned, his whole body projecting an earnest need to please. “0.43 parsecs, sir.”

“Not far ordinarily, except we still only have full impulse to work with,” Ryan muttered. He stepped down to the center of the bridge to take his seat, punching his comm button. “Bridge to Engineering.”

“Mochrie here.”

“Col, we’ll need warp power as soon as possible; this has just turned into a rescue mission.”

“Aye, sir. I’ve got every man working on it.”

“Keep me informed,” said Ryan, ending the call. “Esten, take us to Procyon III. Full impulse power. Lawrence, notify Starfleet Command. The ambassador will have to wait a little longer.”

 

TBC.


	2. Chapter 2

During the next hour, news of the ship’s affliction spread… as did the problems. It seemed that for every section the crew managed to clear, a new problem would crop up elsewhere—the food synthesizers were the latest to be hit, with tribbles showing up in all sorts of foods and beverages. They did, however, discover the source of the mayhem when a member of the crew reported a young ensign who had been showing one of the furry creatures around a few days earlier. Ensign Greenwood had not reported for duty that morning and, when they checked her quarters, they found them almost full to the brim with hundreds of tribbles. A tearful Greenwood, buried in amongst them, explained that she hadn’t realized that they bred so quickly, and had not known what to do with them all. 

Ryan wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them either. For the time being, all the tribbles they’d found were being contained in the brig, but that wasn’t a long-term solution. Another problem added to a long list.

Finally, Ryan got the call from Colin he’d been waiting for; the tribbles were out of Engineering and warp power had been restored. What would have been a seven hour journey was completed in eleven minutes, and the Class M planet loomed large on their view screen. 

Unlike Earth, it was more green than blue, land dominating over water, but it was a welcome sight to the crew, who had been in space for the last fifteen months. Like a little piece of home.

“Now that big mama’s got shore leave written all over her,” said Greg, mirroring Ryan’s train of thought.

“Duty first, Greg,” Ryan reminded him. “S’ssion, any indigenous population?”

“Affirmative, captain, but primitive and scattered. They should not hinder a rescue mission.” 

“Lawrence, try hailing the Mirian Explorer.”

“Aye, sir.” She turned back to her console, pressing several buttons, and then spoke in the clear, clipped tone that she reserved for transmissions. “Mirian Explorer, this is the USS Firecrest. Please respond.” After waiting a few moments, she tried again. “Mirian Explorer, this is the USS Firecrest of the United Federation of Planets. Do you read us, over?” She shook her head. “Nothing, Captain.”

“Can you locate where the original transmission came from?” Ryan asked.

“I can try, sir.” 

Within a couple of minutes she read out the coordinates, her expression triumphant, and Ryan got to his feet.

“Okay; Greg, you’re with me. Davis, you have the bridge.” He jumped up to the comm station as the bridge personnel smoothly reorganized. “Lieutenant, have the doctor and a security team meet us in the transporter room.”

She acknowledged the order, all the while looking deep into his eyes, and then, dropping her voice to a husky whisper, added, “Be careful, sir.”

Ryan stepped into the turbolift, feeling slightly bewildered by the exchange. When the doors had slid shut, he pondered for a moment and then looked sideways at Greg. “Any idea what that was about?”

Instantly Greg’s lips curled upwards in a smirk, as if he’d been waiting for Ryan to ask. “Josie’s still holding onto the possibility that you might be straight.”

***

The security team was already waiting in the transporter room when they got there; one of the ensigns, the only women present, was in the midst of expressing her enthusiasm for the mission to anyone who would listen.

“—fairly simple really so transferring was the best option, and don’t you think red suits me?” 

The man beside her grinned; he was older, his hair white but his face dominated by dark bushy eyebrows. “You’d look cracking in any colour, Caroline.”

Her brilliant smile at this compliment intensified as she laid eyes on Ryan. “Oh, Captain! Thank you for giving me this chance, sir.”

“No thanks needed, ensign,” Ryan replied easily. “Your name was at the top of the duty roster.” He looked around while fastening a belt around his waist for his phaser and communicator, passing another one to Greg. “Where’s the doctor?”

The transporter chief looked up. “He hasn’t arrived yet, sir. Shall I call—“

“Hold your horses; I’m here.” Brad had just walked through the doors, his medical tricorder slung over his shoulder. “I just had to finish up some physicals.” He shot a meaningful glance at Ryan, who held his hands up defensively, palms out. 

“Blame the tribbles, doctor. I’m not liking today any more than you.”

“Apart from the no physical thing,” Greg added under his breath, dark eyes glinting.

To deflect attention away from himself, and also to cover the traitorous twitch of his lips, Ryan turned to address his transporter chief—a young lieutenant with dark skin and darker eyes, who was diligently checking the dials on his console and making minute adjustments. 

“Brady, did Lawrence give you the transporter coordinates?”

The other man straightened. “Yes, sir. They’re already laid in.”

“Good.” Ryan strode forward and hopped up onto the front transporter pad, immediately followed by Greg, Brad, and the security team so that all six pads were filled. “Let’s get this done. Energize.”

***

Ryan barely had time to register sunlight and greenery through the diminishing haze from the transporter beam when he heard the unmistakeable sound of a weapon being fired. Instinctively he dived to the ground behind a rocky outcrop to his left. He heard several more thuds as his team also took cover, along with a shriek. He was pulling the phaser from his belt, cursing another complication to his already difficult day, when he heard a forceful shout.

“Niall! No!”

It was a man’s voice, deep and commanding. Ryan risked raising his head an inch or so to take a look, and saw a large man yanking the weapon from his smaller companion—presumably the one who had fired—while speaking in harsh whispers. The smaller and considerably thinner man nodded sullenly and then slouched off in the opposite direction towards a dark grey mass some way off.

The other man stepped forward a little cautiously. “My apologies. Please show yourselves.”

Ryan silently indicated to Greg to stay down but slowly rose himself, keeping his phaser ready.

“Are you Commander McShane?” he called.

“I am,” the man replied heartily. Then, seeing Ryan’s phaser, he held up his hands and carefully set his weapon aside in a gesture of pacification. “I apologize for my crew member; I’m afraid you rather took him by surprise.”

Satisfied that they were no longer in any danger, Ryan also stowed his weapon and gave the all clear to his team. 

“Not much of a welcome party,” Greg muttered as he got to his feet.

“I’m Captain Stiles of the USS Firecrest,” said Ryan, moving out from behind the group of flattened, moss-strewn boulders. “We received your distress call, commander.”

“Oh, please, call me Mike,” he said, smiling broadly. “Everyone else does. I’m mightily glad to see you, captain. I certainly wasn’t expecting a Federation starship to respond.”

“We were in the area.”

“Captain,” Brad called, his head appearing above a large rock a few meters to their right. “Ensign Quentin was hit by that disruptor. I’ve patched the wound up, but she’ll need to go back to the ship.”

The smile slid from Mike’s face as they both hastened over to her. “I’m so sorry, captain. I’m sure Niall intended your crew member no harm; he’s young and can be a little impetuous.”

Ryan’s eyes moved from the crimson patch that stained the ensign’s red dress up to her pale face, slack in unconsciousness; lieutenant Frost, who she’d been talking to so animatedly only a few minutes earlier, was crouched by her other side, his face awash with concern. Injuries like this were a risk that every landing party member acknowledged and accepted, in the line of duty. Fortunately, most of the time, 23rd Century medicine was up to the task.

“It happens,” Ryan said, pulling the communicator from his belt and flipping it open. “Stiles to Firecrest.”

“Lawrence here, sir.”

“Have Lieutenant Brady lock onto Ensign Quentin and beam her aboard; she needs medical attention.”

“Aye, sir.”

Mike looked up from the ensign’s prone form, his manner suddenly a little more hesitant. “I realize this might be impertinent, captain, considering the circumstances, but a member of my crew is also in need of a doctor.”

Ryan looked to Brad, who nodded, slinging his tricorder back over his shoulder. “This is nothing nurse Siegel can’t handle.”

A loud hum heralded the beginnings of transport and the group stepped back—Frost somewhat reluctantly—to avoid getting caught in the beam. They stood watching as the ensign gradually faded, leaving nothing but a slight compression in the grass where her body had lain.

“This way, gentlemen,” said Mike, setting off in the direction of his younger companion.

Ryan went after him, followed closely by Greg and Brad on either side, with the two remaining security officers bringing up the rear. It was the first chance Ryan had had to properly look around at the landscape—a combination of grassland and trees, interspersed with strange rock formations stretching towards hills in the distance. The sun was hot on their backs, and there was no sign of water. The grass around them was parched and yellow.

As they neared the ship, the damage to its hull became obvious—as did the damage to the landscape behind it, left broken and charred in its wake as far as the eye could see. Amongst the old dents and scrapes left by rogue asteroids and other such hazards of space travel, there was a whole host of new gouges, shining brightly in the sun like fresh wounds. Niall, still looking rather sullen, stood by the main hatch, one foot resting back against the ship. He followed their progress with wary eyes.

Ryan turned his attention back to Mike, who was walking just ahead of him. “How bad is the damage?”

Mike glanced back, slowing his pace a little. “I’m not sure yet. My engineer is doing his best to find out but, well, truth be told, he’s a little out of his depth. He knows enough to keep her going under normal conditions, and that’s been good enough so far. But this…”

“Were you attacked?”

“Oh, no,” Mike said quickly, “nothing like that. No, our systems malfunctioned and, before we knew it, we were caught in this planet’s atmosphere. What could have been a minor problem turned into a major one; the engines are in pretty bad shape after that landing.” 

Greg leaned in, bumping Ryan’s shoulder, to confer quietly. “Shouldn’t Colin be with us for this?”

Ryan shook his head a fraction, keeping his voice equally low. “I want to see what we’re dealing with first. Besides, you and I have a decent amount of engineering knowledge between us; we may be able to sort the problem ourselves.”

Greg shot him a sceptical look but didn’t say anything further as Mike had just reached the hatch and was ushering them inside. 

It took Ryan’s eyes several moments to adjust, going from blinding sunshine into the windowless interior of the ship, although the shade was very welcome. He paused, wiping the sheen of sweat from his face with the back of his hand. 

The ship was more cramped than he was used to; the dark grey of the hull continued inside, adding to the overall feeling of being too closely confined. There was also a musty smell, laced with the lingering scent of burning circuits. They followed Mike down through several levels, navigating a network of tight corridors and stairwells, and emerged in a larger space that Ryan guessed was their equivalent of main engineering. It was already occupied, judging by the voices echoing through the haze of smoke hanging heavily in the air—one of which was definitely female.

“Have you tried by-passing the primary antimatter variance matrix? That sometimes—“

“Yes.” The male voice that cut in sounded distinctly long-suffering, with a bite of impatience. “Don’t you have someone else to nag? I’m sure Niall has already managed to aggravate whatever life is on this damn planet.”

“I’m not his mother, and don’t interrupt.”

“You’re not _my_ mother either,” came the muttered reply.

Following Mike forwards, the shape of two figures gradually became visible—a middle-aged woman leaning against a heavily damaged console, her right arm held awkwardly against her chest, and the other underneath it, his top half out of sight, one leg bent at the knee.

“I come bearing good news,” Mike said loudly as he approached. “Help has arrived.”

The woman immediately turned her shrewd gaze on Ryan and his men, evidently sizing them up. She was small in stature but had an air of indomitability, a fierce gaze beneath waves of short tawny hair. 

Her companion took another moment before shuffling out with a murmured, “They’d better not be Tellarites.” He sat up, momentarily surprised by the five of them standing a few meters away but he quickly recovered, his clear blue eyes travelling over the group and, in particular, the insignia. “A Federation ship? We’re honoured.”

The sarcasm was clear in his tone, and Mike shot an apologetic glance at Ryan. “Captain, this is Jim Sweeney; my engineer. He and the Federation are somewhat at odds; I assure you it’s nothing personal.” 

“The Federation are interfering idiots,” said Jim. “No offense,” he added wryly.

Mike hurried on, throwing a disapproving glance Jim’s way. “And this is my navigator, Sandi Toksvig.”

Ignoring the less than warm welcome, Ryan nodded to both and proceeded with his own introductions. “I’m Captain Stiles. This is my First Officer, Lieutenant Commander Proops, my Chief Medical Officer Brad Sherwood, and my security team, Lieutenant Stephen Frost and Ensign Rory Bremner.”

There was a moment’s pause before Greg stepped towards the impassive engineer, gesturing to the battered console. “Mind if I take a look?”

Jim swept an arm outwards, displaying a number of burns and tears to his shirt. “Be my guest.”

Looking a little relieved, Mike turned his attention to Sandi. “You need to get that arm looked at.”

“Nonsense, I’m fine,” she replied briskly, but still cradling her arm to her chest.

Ryan looked to Brad, who stepped in. “Ma’am, I’m a doctor. Could I take a look?

She eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t look old enough to be a doctor. Not going to harvest my organs as soon as my back’s turned, are you?”

Brad pulled the medical tricorder from his shoulder with a small shake of the head and a smile. “No organ harvesting, I swear… I save that for the _really_ bad patients, like ship’s captains.”

A slow smile tugged her lips upwards as she regarded him with something close to approval. “Good man. We might just keep you.”

 

It quickly became apparent that the combined engineering skills of Ryan and Greg were not up to the task in this case, so Ryan made his way back out of the ship to call the Firecrest and, within minutes, Colin materialized with a bulky repair kit.

“I wondered if you were going to invite me along,” he said amiably by way of greeting, walking towards the ship’s main hatch where Ryan stood waiting. Niall had disappeared again, but the two security officers had been placed on watch in his place.

Ryan grinned, inclining his head. “You’re the miracle worker.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse.” Ryan led the way inside, immediately missing the fresh air he’d gained briefly. “The circuits are fried and the engines look pretty bad.”

“As long as it’s nothing to do with small balls of fur, I’ll be glad of the break.”

Brad and Sandi had gone by the time Ryan returned to engineering with Colin, presumably to whatever served as their medical area, but Greg, Mike, and Jim were still there, grouped around one of the consoles with varying expressions of concern and puzzlement. They had been joined by another crew member, a short and stocky man who Mike quickly introduced as his second in command, Steve Steen. He seemed pleasant enough, if somewhat dry in his humour, like Jim.

Despite his earlier misgivings about the Federation, Jim at least seemed pleased to see a fellow engineer—perhaps because here, at last, was someone who spoke his language and shared his passion. After listening carefully to Jim’s explanation of the damage problems, Colin set to work in finding the solutions. Greg went to the bridge with Steve, to assist with the more minor technical repairs, while Ryan and Mike stayed in engineering, close enough to be of help without getting in the way. Ryan used the time to garner a few more details about the ship and her motley crew. 

They had been operating in the sector for several years, acquiring a number of useful strays along the way. Reading between the lines, Ryan surmised that they walked the line on regulations and control—technically not breaking any rules, but perfectly willing to bend them as they saw fit. Jim had apparently been stripped of his own ship license after a run in with the Federation Cargo Authority—a sore subject by all accounts and no doubt responsible for his obvious contempt for the fleet. The containers full of dilithium crystals now lying in their cargo bay were bound for a planet near the edge of Federation space, close to Romulan territory; a little too close for Ryan’s liking.

“Your antimatter pulse accelerator is burnt out,” Colin called, his voice slightly muffled.

Jim cursed as Colin slid out from underneath the mass of circuits and machinery, covered in sweat and grime. He wiped a hand across his face, leaving a dark oily smear in its wake like war paint. “I should be able to fix it with some parts from our ship,” he added and glanced across at Ryan. “Shall I get Lieutenant Brady to beam them down, captain? There are a few pieces of equipment I could do with, too.”

Ryan nodded, stepping away from Mike. “We’ll have to contact the ship outside; the communicators don’t work through the interference in here. I need to check in with the security team anyway.”

 

The sun had noticeably dipped in the sky when they re-emerged from the ship, but it had lost none of its heat. Once the orders had been given to the Firecrest, and security had reported back with no problems, Ryan retreated to the shade of several spiky-looking trees nearby to await the transport. Colin meandered over to join him, stopping just short of the trees to examine some sort of brightly coloured winged insect that was singing a high-pitched melody from the tinder-dry grass. Watching him, Ryan made to lean against the tree before abruptly remembering the spikes; he scowled at it and moved to a safer distance.

“I’ll be glad when this day’s over.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Colin said, sitting on a flattened rock in the sunshine and leaning back on his elbows, his legs stretched out. “This is nice.” He tilted his grimy face to the sky with apparent relish, eyes closed, filling his lungs with the sweet, fresh air.

His contentment was infectious, blowing through the tangled web of Ryan’s troubled thoughts like a gentle summer breeze. Ryan settled himself on the grass in the dappled shade next to him, deciding to enjoy the sliver of peace while it lasted. The grass around them sighed restlessly in the wind, brushing against Ryan’s legs in a light caress. If it wasn’t for the three moons prominent in the sky, and the great hulk of the broken ship before him, he could almost imagine that he was out in the cornfield at home, under the tree that had stood there as long as he could remember. His thinking tree, he’d called it, silent witness and confidante to all his secrets and dreams, the thirst for adventure that had led him into Starfleet and what had become his new home and family.

The insistent beep of his communicator intruded upon his thoughts, bringing him back across the stars and into the present in an instant.

“Stiles here.”

“I’m initializing transport now, captain.”

“Understood.” 

“Break’s over, I guess,” Colin sighed, keeping his eyes closed for a moment longer.

“Yep.” Ryan got to his feet, brushing the grass from his pants, and then stood over Colin, casting him in shadow as he offered a hand. As Colin grasped it with a smile, Ryan’s communicator beeped again and he flipped it open. “Stiles here.”

“It’s Brady again, captain.” His voice sounded much less assured this time, and there was a pause before he continued. “The transporters aren’t working, sir; I think the tribbles must have got into the circuits.”

Any residual good feelings evaporated as Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose to rein in his renewed frustration. With the transporters out of action, and their shuttlecraft lost on the previous mission, they were effectively as stranded as the crew they were attempting to help. “Well, get them out of there—I don’t care how many men it takes. Get those transporters working!”

“Aye, sir.”

Closing the communicator with a snap, Ryan dropped his hand and met Colin’s gaze. 

“Okay,” Colin said grimly, “I take it back. Let’s get today over and done with.”

 

Now with an extended wait on their hands, Ryan and Colin returned to the ship. They used the time to help get the less damaged systems back online, by-passing damaged circuits and conduits. It wasn’t an easy job; much of the ship seemed to be held together by nothing more than scrap parts haphazardly strung together—Ryan was amazed that it had managed to fly at all in the first place.

“She’s an old model,” Colin replied matter-of-factly when Ryan said as much. He was on the floor, busy re-routing main navigation control from a smashed console, and Ryan was on-hand to provide assistance when needed. Greg was with his Mirian Explorer counterpart across the bridge, trying to get the communications console working again. “There’s not much value in these ships anymore, but they’re more reliable than you’d think.” Colin ducked back out and closed the panel, taking the opportunity to stretch his long legs. “Just a little cramped for my liking.”

“Tell me about it,” Ryan muttered. He was stooping to avoid bumping his head on the ceiling.

Getting to his feet, Colin staggered as a loud boom reverberated through the ship. Ryan’s hand shot out to steady him, his face immediately awash with concern. “Was that the engines?”

Colin shook his head, his brow furrowed. “No, it felt like an external blast.”

The two of them followed Greg and Steve off the bridge towards the main hatch, Ryan tugging the communicator from his belt as he went. “Stiles to security team, report!”

They were almost there, the rest of the crew running from all directions, when Lieutenant Frost responded, clear sounds of phaser fire in the background. Frost’s voice was strained, and he sounded a little out of breath.

“Captain, we’re under fire! We can’t make it back to the ship from our present position; Bremner tried and he was hit. It’s Klingons, sir!”

“Stay where you are,” Ryan ordered, rounding on Mike, who was now beside him. Mike’s apprehensive expression had changed to clear alarm at the mention of Klingons. “Do you have another exit apart from the cargo bay? Somewhere unobtrusive?”

“Yes, there’s an emergency exit hatch in engineering.” Mike caught Ryan’s arm as he made to move away. “They’re after the dilithium; I _can’t_ let them take it.”

“The fight’s not over yet.” Ryan turned to Greg. “Stand ready by the main hatch; I’ll draw the Klingons fire away from our team and cover their retreat. Col, you’re with me.” He turned his attention back to his communicator as they hurried back along the corridor, knowing that getting messages would be impossible once they reached engineering. After informing Frost of his plan, Ryan immediately called the Firecrest.

“Davis here.”

Ryan didn’t waste any time. “Davis, go to red alert. We’re under attack by Klingons down here—their ship may be cloaked in orbit around the planet.”

“Aye, captain!” Ryan heard him pass the order on, then the familiar blare of noise and activity as everyone prepared for a possible attack. When Davis spoke again, his voice sounded grim. “We’re not in good shape to fight, sir. Weapons are offline, and our shields are only at fifty three percent.”

Ryan slid down a ladder to the level below one-handed, closely followed by Colin and Mike. “Hopefully you won’t have to. What about the transporters?”

“Still out of action, captain.”

Cursing inwardly as they set off at a run, Ryan replied, “Get them working as fast as you can. That’s a priority. Stiles out.” 

Jim was looking even more flustered when they reached engineering. “What the hell’s going on out there?”

“Klingons,” Mike said by way of explanation, walking straight towards the hatch on the far side of the room. 

“Wow, this day just keeps going from bad to worse,” Jim said a little incredulously.

“Tell me about it,” Ryan muttered as he passed him, drawing his phaser. “Colin, is there any way you can fix the engines without those parts?”

Colin looked doubtful. “I might be able to patch them up temporarily, but it’s a long-shot.”

Mike had almost finished opening the hatch. Ryan tightened his grip on his phaser, readying himself for whatever lay beyond. “Do what you can.”

“Aye, captain.” Before turning away, Colin lightly touched his arm. “Be careful.”

It was the same plea that Josie had made before Ryan had left the ship, but this time there was a wealth of feeling behind it that eclipsed Josie’s feeble hope, and Ryan felt immeasurably stronger for it. He nodded and, the next moment, was back in the fresh air and the late afternoon sunshine.

It went as smoothly as Ryan could have hoped for. The Klingons didn’t see or expect his appearance from the stern of the ship, and he was able to successfully draw their fire away from the others, keeping up a barrage of shots himself so that the Klingons were forced to repeatedly dive for cover. He waited until the two men, whom he recognized as Frost and Niall, both struggling under the limp form of Bremner, had disappeared into the main hatch. Only then did he retreat himself, confident that he could get back inside the hatch before the Klingons could round the ship. The shots continued regardless, hitting the metal hull with a deep reverberating sound like the toll of a bell, but Ryan made it safely inside with nothing to show for it but a light sweat.

Bremner had not been so lucky. He’d sustained a direct hit to the chest in his earlier attempt to get back to the ship and had been killed directly, his red shirt burned through. Brad could do nothing for him. Frost gently laid him to one side of engineering, covering his face, and gave his report. The small group of Klingons had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and it had been Niall who had raised the alarm—running back to warn the others as shots were fired after him. It was clear that he had acquitted himself of his earlier mistake in Frost’s eyes.

Now it was a waiting game. A small group went to the bridge to finish the repairs there, but the majority of the crew and Ryan’s men remained in engineering, helping their two engineers as best they could as the shots continued to rain upon the ship and the metal groaned ominously. Beads of sweat were trickling down Colin’s face as he rushed to make the necessary repairs while ensuring the utmost care was taken with the delicate, intricate, and often dangerous components.

“How did the Klingons even know about the dilithium?”

It was Sandi who spoke; she was sitting beside Jim, occasionally passing him tools. Her injured arm was now in a makeshift sling, and she was looking a lot more comfortable. Niall was next to her. He’d said very little since his return, his expression varying from blank to perturbed.

“They must have picked up your distress call and checked the database to see if you were worth raiding,” Ryan replied, glancing upwards as a particularly loud shot rang out and wondering how his own ship was doing. Now that the Mirian Explorer’s communication console was working again, he’d told Davis to notify him immediately when the transporters were back online. Unfortunately, with the ship’s chief engineer stuck on the planet, it was proving a difficult task. The only good bit of news was that there had been no sign of the Klingon ship, which led Ryan to suspect that they had landed on the planet—somewhere relatively close.

The ship violently shuddered as a bigger, much louder blast hit the hull, forcing everyone to steady themselves, and fearful glances were exchanged. Ryan knew that the ship wouldn’t take much more in its present condition. They were running out of time.

Another blast hit, then another directly after, causing something above them to snap, hissing a cloud of vapour. Colin emerged, wiping his face, and looked up at the broken conduit.

“They’re not going to let up, are they?”

“How much longer do you need?” Ryan asked, passing a flask of water.

“Twenty minutes maybe… providing they don’t break anything else.” 

The words had barely left his mouth when the ship was rocked by the loudest boom yet, very close to them. It triggered a series of smaller blasts within engineering as already damaged parts gave out, then a high-pitched whine accompanied the blare of an alarm.

White-faced, Colin looked back at the engines. “Everyone out of engineering! Now!” 

Nobody questioned the order; as one, they scrambled towards the door. Ryan had barely made it through when the explosion ripped across the room, sending a rush of burning air across his back. He threw himself down to avoid the following fire-ball and raining debris, covering Colin with his body. Moments later the door was closed behind them, dulling the sounds of the aftermath. 

Coughing and gasping, the group unsteadily got to their feet—all except one. Niall lay sprawled on the floor, a jagged shard of metal having lodged squarely between his shoulder blades.

“Niall!” Jim called out, crouching to turn over the limp body, revealing the glistening red tip of the shard that had punched right through him. Ryan glanced across to Brad, who did a quick scan and then shook his head.

Mike, his own cheek bleeding from a wide cut, laid a hand on his engineer’s shoulder. “He’s dead, Jim.” 

A moment of stunned, mournful silence was broken by a loud shout from along the corridor. “What the hell was that?”

Greg and Steve were running towards them, Steve’s steps faltering at the sight of Niall on the floor.

“That was what was left of the engines going up in smoke,” Colin said, still coughing, his face almost black.

“We were just coming down to tell you that Brady’s finally got the transporters back online,” said Greg, his eyes travelling across the bruised and battered group before resting on Ryan. “He can beam us up anytime we want.”

“So that’s it,” Jim said heavily, standing up. “We’ve lost.”

Ryan, who had been thinking hard, shook his head. “Not quite. I have a plan.”

***

“Okay, let me get this straight,” Esten said, emptying the contents of his glass. “You beamed the dilithium up to the ship from their cargo bay and replaced it with all of the tribbles onboard?”

Brady smirked. “Uh-huh. It was the captain’s idea.”

Esten shook his head, grinning. “Boy, I would have loved to have seen their faces when they opened those containers.”

Ryan sat a few tables away from them with Colin, Greg, and some of the Mirian’s crew, winding down from the day. As soon as they’d safely warped away from Procyon III, there had been a short memorial service for Bremner and Niall, attended by both crews. Afterwards they’d gathered in the rec room to drink to their fallen comrades, and the sombre mood was lifted by the telling of many amusing stories and memories of the men they’d lost. Ryan always felt the loss of every man under his command—an unspoken, painful tally in his head—but he had long since learnt that it was far better to celebrate the life that had been lived rather than sorrowfully mourn its passing.

Mike had agreed to be dropped off at the nearest Star Base, along with his crew and cargo, to acquire another ship. Jim was the least happy with this plan, but conceded that it was the only way. Barring further problems, they would arrive there by morning. And, in a welcome turn of luck, Starfleet had informed Ryan that, due to the unfortunate string of events that had waylaid the Firecrest, another ship had been sent to rendezvous with the Ambassador on Arcturus VI. That meant that he was at last free to organize some well-earned shore leave at the earliest possible opportunity.

Stretching, Ryan laid down his glass as another burst of laughter died down. “Well, it’s getting late; I’m going to turn in.” There were a few half-hearted attempts to get him to stay a little longer but he wasn’t going to be swayed. “It’s been a long day.”

The group bid him goodnight, some already going to fetch more drinks amongst talk of staying through till dawn. Colin merely looked up as Ryan stood, a smile in his tired eyes. “Sleep well, captain.”

***

“Sickbay to Captain Stiles.”

The lights in Ryan’s quarters swelled in response to the call. Groaning, Ryan dragged himself up onto his elbows so that he could reach the comm panel above his bed. “Yes, doctor.”

“I just thought I’d remind you that you still have an appointment with me.”

After everything that had happened, Ryan had completely forgotten the one thing on his original schedule. He cursed silently before his brain kicked into gear and reminded him that it was the middle of the night. “Do you have any idea what time it is, Brad?”

“Time for your physical?”

Ryan could tell that Brad was enjoying himself; he could practically see the smirk through the bulkheads that separated them.

“Tomorrow, doctor,” he said firmly. “Stiles out.”

No sooner had Ryan pressed the button than he was dragged back down into waiting arms and his mouth recaptured, to resume what had been so rudely interrupted. 

“You know, I can attest to your physical fitness,” Colin murmured against Ryan’s lips, curling his legs around Ryan’s with a seductive smile. “Do you think Brad would accept my word?”

Ryan’s rumble of laughter deepened into a something more primal as their lips met again with renewed urgency, the fire rekindled. And, after a few moments, the lights surrounding them faded back to replicate the soft glow of a warm summer’s night under a waning moon.

 

End.


End file.
